


Lights-out Rule

by astrid_fischer



Series: 'le révolutionnaire', an a.b.c. press publication [8]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, Multi, Newspaper AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 01:46:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1450798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrid_fischer/pseuds/astrid_fischer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few minutes of silence tick past, and then, “Enjolras,” Courfeyrac tries again.</p>
<p>“I will kill you,” Enjolras returns in a voice that is groggy from sleep but still deeply terrifying.</p>
<p>*****</p>
<p>In which everyone has a sleepover at Combeferre's, Courfeyrac is (shockingly) that kid who won't be quiet and go to sleep, and they may need to find a new circulation manager after all.</p>
<p>Set immediately after 'Up in Smoke.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lights-out Rule

**Author's Note:**

> so this silly fluff thing has been by far the most popular fic i've posted on tumblr, the extreme upside of which is that the glorious elvishness (visit her tumblr her art is perf you won't regret it) drew this spectacular thing for it so go check it out if you want!!! http://elvishness.tumblr.com/post/46191646013/fanart-for-this-part-of-the-le-revolutionnaire
> 
> i'm working on reordering the series parts now, y'alls. sorry it's still something of a mess, but if you've read 'up in smoke' you'll know what's happenin'.

“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac whispers to the dark apartment, shifting so he can strain his eyes in his friend’s direction. He takes care not to move too much, though, so as not to jostle the poet zipped up in the sleeping bag with him.

There’s no response. A few feet away, Eponine’s breathing alters just slightly, then evens out again.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says again. Even the whisper is loud in the quiet room. Faint sounds of traffic and the laughter of passers-by drift up from the street below, even though it’s nearly three in the morning. “Are you asleep?”

There’s a sound like a sigh, then very deliberate silence.

Courfeyrac adopts a wounded air. “Are you _pretending_ to be asleep?”

“Shut up,” Cosette groans from Courf’s other side. She’s got her legs pressed up against his back through her sleeping bag, and she jabs one knee painfully into his spine to accentuate her words.

He bites back a yelp and wriggles away from her with a rustling of down.

Jehan continues to sleep peacefully. Marius makes a _hmm_ ing sound and rolls over. Combeferre sighs in his sleep.

“Enjolras,” Courf whispers again, and this time Enjolras’ exhalation is more audible. “ _What_?” he whispers back, in a voice raspy from sleep.

“Shut _up_ ,” Eponine’s muffled voice comes from beneath the blankets heaped on top of her. She’s sleeping right up next to the couch, bundled in crocheted coverlets so that only the dark of her hair is visible. Eponine sleeps curled up like a cat, all of her limbs pulled in close. 

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre’s tired voice drifts across the room. “We’ve talked about the lights-out rule.”

Courfeyrac falls silent. He _hates_ the lights-out rule.

The press employees are spread out across the hardwood floor of Combeferre’s tiny living room—all of them, even Combeferre and Feuilly, who share the apartment and therefore do actually have their own beds to sleep in—because after the day’s events, everyone had been feeling a little clingy. No one could easily forget what it had felt like not to know where the others were, or if they were okay.

Hence, group sleepover.

(Combeferre had attempted to point out the impracticality of the arrangement, but he hadn’t tried too hard, and he had been shouted down at once anyway.)

Their voices were still rough with smoke and their hair dirty with ash when they’d spread blankets and pillows haphazardly over the floor, because no one had the energy to shower and even though it was only just past eight (they’d ordered an appalling amount of Chinese food for dinner from the place three blocks down, and the depleted white takeout boxes are now crowding the kitchen counter) they’d all fallen asleep almost instantly.

Enjolras and Grantaire are on the couch, back to front, Grantaire wedged into the impossibly narrow space between Enjolras’ body and the couch back, with his face pressed into the warm skin of Enjolras’ neck and his arms wrapped around Enjolras’ waist like an octopus. Considering the day’s events, Enjolras isn’t complaining.

The whole evening the editor had kept sneaking glances over at Grantaire, as if to make sure he was still there. Courfeyrac understands: it’s hard to shake the lingering terror of what they might have lost.

They’ve both left their jeans and socks on, but Grantaire had shucked off his shirt before collapsing, exhausted, onto the couch. Enjolras is still wearing his t-shirt (well, half his t-shirt at least—Grantaire is astonishingly adept at removing his boyfriend’s clothing even in sleep, and the cotton has rucked up around Enjolras’ ribcage in the other man’s unconscious quest to get his hands on bare skin).

Joly and Bossuet have made a sort of nest out of the spare sofa cushions by the curtained window, stripped down to their boxers with Combeferre’s duvet draped over them and their limbs tangled together. Bossuet is gently snoring with his head resting on one of Joly’s arms.

Courfeyrac is in one of Feuilly’s old sleeping bags (retained from when the artist had backpacked from Paris to Germany to Poland and back in his teens) with Jehan curled against him. Cosette is in the other, right next to him. Both sleeping bags still carry the faint smell of pot and cigarette smoke picked up in a dozen train stations from Warsaw to Munich.

Cosette hadn’t been at the press today, obviously, but after Marius had called her she’d taken off work early to come meet them. Feuilly, likewise, had been waiting for them at the apartment, eyes wide and demanding to know every detail of what had happened.

Cosette rolls over now and manages to slam her elbow into the space between Courf’s shoulder blades in the process. He barely suppresses a whimper.

Cosette sleeps _aggressively_ ,like it’s an Olympic sport. Her limbs are everywhere, and more often than not one of them is jabbing you to move out of her space. And of course, the entirety of whatever couch or bed or futon she’s sleeping on—no matter how many people she’s sharing it with or how much room she already has—is her space. For someone so _tiny_ it’s absolutely astounding how much room she can take up.

She and Eponine work well for precisely that reason—a lot of the time they’ll fall asleep together, Eponine curled up on one end of the couch, hands wedged between head and pillow with her legs tucked up underneath her, while Cosette sprawls diagonally across the rest of it.

Marius is stretched out on Cosette’s other side, underneath his own blanket because he’d blushed too much when she’d suggested sharing the sleeping bag, even though everyone else had shown absolutely no modesty in terms of sleeping arrangements. Marius is asleep now, making a faint murmuring sound and furrowing his brows every now and then, but his fingers are twined loosely with Cosette’s on the blanket between them.

Bahorel is sprawled flat on his back, bare-chested, still wearing his jeans and unlaced boots and not bothering with any blankets because he’s like a goddamn furnace all by himself. He snores, loudly, and every now and then Feuilly reaches down to smack him with a muttered curse.

Feuilly is tucked into the armchair above Bahorel, making his lanky frame impossibly small with a skill that only comes of years of practice sleeping wherever he could find the space.

Combeferre is sleeping by the door on one of his yoga mats with the patchwork quilt Jehan’s mother had made him for Christmas pulled over him. His glasses are neatly folded on the lowest shelf of the bookshelf nearby.

A few minutes of silence tick past, and then, “Enjolras,” Courfeyrac tries again.

“I will kill you,” Enjolras returns in a voice that is groggy from sleep but still deeply terrifying.

“I will kill you _both_ ,” Eponine says hoarsely into her pillow, which she’s pulled over her head.

“Dramatic,” Courfeyrac says in an affronted undertone. He cranes his neck to glance over at Combeferre to check that he’s not going to be admonished again.

He doesn’t need to worry about waking up Jehan, at least, because he’s learned from experience that once the little poet is out, he’s _out_. Jehan sleeps much like a baby sloth, his arms around Courfeyrac’s waist and his head tucked up underneath Courfeyrac’s chin. His hair is tickling Courfeyrac’s skin, and Courf can’t tell whose heartbeat is whose. He likes that very much.

(Because even hours later he can’t forget being in the press today with smoke all around them and the beam slamming down to block the door in a shower of sparks, and the fear in Jehan’s eyes when they’d turned to look at each other, and the moment when Courfeyrac thought he wouldn’t be able to get the window open, and having to let Jehan drop away from him to the ground so many feet below.)

“Motherfuckers,” Bahorel yawns. It’s unclear if it’s in response to someone in particular, or the situation in general. He scratches his ribs, rolls over onto his side, and goes immediately back to sleep.

Jehan shifts slightly, smiles, and softly murmurs, “Into the forest dim,” without waking up.

Courfeyrac smiles fondly down at him for a moment and brings a hand up to push stray strands of hair slipped free from their braid out of Jehan’s face. He is, however, undeterred. “Enjolras,” he hisses, “it’s _important._ ”

“I doubt it,” Feuilly mumbles into the arm of the chair.

“It _is_ ,” Courfeyrac whispers urgently. Cosette kicks him. Hard. On purpose. He winces and tries to scoot away from her again as he wheedles, “ _Enjolras_.” This time he draws out the final ‘s’ for so long it turns into a plaintive whine.

“Permission to kill Courfeyrac?” Enjolras asks. For someone apparently too tired even to open his eyes, it’s frankly impressive how scary he sounds.

“No,” Combeferre replies patiently (because everyone knows it was Combeferre he was asking). “We’re already out a newspaper office. Do you really want to try and find a new circulation manager on top of it?”

“Eponine, congratulations, you’re promoted,” Enjolras says.

Courfeyrac makes a high-pitched sound of outrage.

“Just let him tell you whatever it is, for the love of _God_ ,” Eponine groans, pulling the blankets up to cover her head entirely.

Even in the dark Courf can see Enjolras sit up on the couch, silhouetted against the faint light coming in through a gap in the curtains. Grantaire makes a sleepy sound of complaint as he tightens an arm around Enjolras’ waist, trying to pull him back.

Enjolras rubs at his eyes and heaves a sigh, leveling a glare in the general direction of Courfeyrac’s sleeping bag. “ _What_?”

Courfeyrac beams. “Did you know you say Grantaire’s name in your sleep?”

There’s a dangerous hiss from Enjolras and the low, sleepy rumble of Grantaire’s laugh. Feuilly groans.

“I _do not_ ,” Enjolras whispers heatedly.

“You do,” Grantaire and Eponine say at the same time. Grantaire sounds smug. Eponine sounds vindictive.

“Lights-out rule,” Combeferre says again, more loudly.

Everyone falls silent again, except for Bahorel, whose snoring has picked up once more. Feuilly _thwacks_ him with a pillow and Bahorel swears at him.

“I don’t,” Enjolras mutters.

“I took a video recording,” Courfeyrac whispers back.


End file.
